


A Permanent Reminder

by loosingletters



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pre-Canon, Assassin's Creed Events, Day 1 Favourite In-Game Details, Drinking, Gen, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-15
Updated: 2018-12-15
Packaged: 2019-09-19 14:20:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17003289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loosingletters/pseuds/loosingletters
Summary: The day Desmond decides to get a tattoo he’s considerably drunk. The kind of drunk you only get when it’s your birthday, you’re finally officially old enough to buy alcohol - ignoring that according to his forged paperwork he’s been able to do so for two years already – and you’re all alone reminiscing about your fucked up childhood.





	A Permanent Reminder

**Author's Note:**

> It's the first day of Assassin's Creed Week! Check it out on tumblr at [asscreedevents](https://asscreedevents.tumblr.com/)  
> So one of my fave in game details in Desmond's tattoo so I decided to write about that!

The day Desmond decides to get a tattoo he’s considerably drunk. The kind of drunk you only get when it’s your birthday, you’re finally officially old enough to buy alcohol - ignoring that according to his forged paperwork he’s been able to do so for two years already – and you’re all alone reminiscing about your fucked up childhood.

Desmond remembers being told fairy tales when he was younger, though his were never about any princesses in need of saving or dragons or knights. He was fortunate enough to be told about the dangerous missions of the Assassins of old and how so and so freed this city or that country or whatever from the Templars. And, of course, it wasn’t a proper assassin fairy tale without Desmond ending up feeling like shit as he could never measure up the incredibly high standards his father imposed on him.

It wasn’t until Desmond had escaped the Farm that he had learned how messed up most of his childhood had been. Little Red Riding Hood who? He hadn’t even known most of the games he’d seen kids play in the city, at least not with their proper names. Joining the real world for the first time without anybody holding him back and telling him what to do had been a culture shock Desmond can’t shake off even now, five years later. He’s still caught off-guard way too often, being surprised when he learns that it isn’t normal to be fluent in at least five languages.

Being normal had been hard work – still is. Desmond’s eyes are too sharp, his reflexes are still too fast and he still can’t stop getting up early in the mornings and going for a run.

It’s a work in progress and Desmond will get there. He just needs more time to learn how to let go. He’s come pretty far already, reeducating himself, separating truth from childhood stories.

In his first weeks on the streets, Desmond tried to look up all these things the Assassins had taught him as the truths of the world. He'd even opened up huge history books to search for the history of his childhood, to find any kind of sign that he'd been wrong and that running away had been a dumb and impulsive decision. Nowadays he’d say that back then he had been hoping for a sign, any reason to return home, desperate, dead tired and starved as he was from his stay on the streets.

Unfortunately, the public library only reinforced his believes that his family had been absolutely nuts. He hadn’t been able to find anything on Assassins with a capital A, but plenty on how para-military cults worked. Needlessly to say Desmond left the library in the evening even more horrified than he had entered it.

Point is that, despite his intoxicated state, Desmond is well aware that he’d grown up in a messed up cult and he wants to tell them to go fuck themselves in the most creative way possible.

He could call his parents or some of the other Assassin contacts, he still remembers their phone numbers and if asked, could recite them on the spot. He had to do plenty of memorization as a kid, and it has paid off.

However, that would just result in them finding him and dragging him back when he is happy with his life. Sure, he has a small shitty apartment because his job doesn’t pay all that well, but at least he has something to call his own that can’t be fit in only a small backpack.

Desmond likes his sofa/bed and the tiny table which is already crowded with a few beer bottles and a plate with one small slice of chocolate cake. He likes the ridiculously colorful pillows lying at the end of the feet and the ugly brown carpeted floor. He’s straight up in love with his walls as well. Sure, some idiot decided that a dirty beige color would be lovely, but all the posters he’s hung up almost cover the wall entirely. Most of the space is dedicated to landscapes pictures of New York - Desmond adores the city that gives him his freedom, alright? – but there are also photos of Italy, China, South Africa, India, Australia, Chile and many more countries Desmond plans to see someday. He’s content in America, but he wants more out of his life and the world outside there is so big. There are so many people to meet and places to see. He just needs a lot more money and a better ID.

Which is perhaps why, in the end, he decides on getting a tattoo instead. It is in no way less pricey than disappearing again and resurfacing somewhere else if he were to call his parents, but it is something Desmond can physically own right now. He probably sounds like an arrogant jerk, but after sixteen years of owning nothing he had ended up missing upon running away, he’s grown attached to his possessions. He needs to know what he has, clings especially close to every penny, and nothing short of a war could make him let go of them.

Call him materialistic, but at least he has something he can cling to.

Therefore a permanent reminder seems like a great idea. He knows he wants the assassin symbol in it somewhere because that’s so obvious and dumb that nobody from the Farm would actually consider doing it. They were always so insistent about learning how to be subtle, stay hidden and out of sight.

His father would throw a fit he if saw Desmond getting a tattoo, which is precisely why Desmond settles on doing precisely that.

He has learned how to stand up for himself, how to not be obedient all the damn time and pissing people off can be fun.

Desmond gets up from his sofa and searches for his sketchbook, finding it after trying to navigate his tiny apartment for thirty minutes with nausea from hell, and then finally begins to draw.

First thing on the page is the Assassins’ symbol, the particular origin story for that he forgot but he can recall that it was ridiculous. Then he just doodles around it, the design becoming more complex, much bigger and quite expensive.

The alcohol makes him feel giddy as much as it lets his depression get to him and it all makes for great artistic inspiration, or so he thinks. He’s always enjoyed drawing, it had been one of the few past-times at the Farm that hadn’t been terrible.

And so Desmond decides to get a tattoo on his twenty-first birthday, drunk and hellbent on branding his freedom on his skin permanently where nobody could take it away.

(And a few years later, when Desmond isn’t sure whether he is Altair sitting in Masyaf or Ezio in Rome, he looks down on his arm and takes a deep breath. He expects a hidden blade, but there is none. He expects scarred skin, but he can’t see it. But his arm is covered in black ink, tells him that his name is Desmond Miles, his birthday is March 13th and he’s living in the 21st century. And sometimes that’s enough.)

**Author's Note:**

> Watch me sneak in street kid Desmond. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this! Please let me know what you think!


End file.
